


a deeper well

by TheResurrectionist



Category: Batman - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Dark, Batfam Week 2020, Batfamily (DCU), Gen, Human Clark Kent, Mafia AU, Not Beta Read, Serial Killers, Vigilante Justice, batfam, the batfamily that slays together stays together
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-09
Updated: 2020-03-09
Packaged: 2021-02-28 19:53:53
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,854
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23082790
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheResurrectionist/pseuds/TheResurrectionist
Summary: Bruce Wayne was still Gotham’s prince.But oh, how far he’d fallen.(my impromptu entry for Batfam week 2020, where I couldn’t decide between mafia batfam or serial killers, so I kinda did both?)Day 2:Hurt/Comfort | Unappreciated Family Members |Dark Batfam AU
Relationships: Bruce Wayne & His Kids, Clark Kent/Bruce Wayne, pre slash - Relationship
Comments: 41
Kudos: 351





	a deeper well

**Author's Note:**

> Happy Batfam week! Sorry I didn’t really edit this. I saw today’s prompt and had to write something and then it got away from me...

Clark yelped as the bag was wrenched off his head, flinching backwards.

The sudden light and fresh air were a welcome reprieve after hours of darkness. He gulped in a breath, struggling not to hyperventilate as he took stock of his situation.

Like he’d guessed, there were ropes around his arms and legs, tying him to the chair. He pulled at them weakly, struggling to see where the knots ended.

Everything was blurry. They’d taken his glasses--where the hell were his glasses? He squinted, panicked, and could barely make out a figure in the far corner. His kidnapper?

“Please,” he said, trying to keep the tremor out of his voice, “I don’t know anything. My name is Clark Kent, I’m just a reporter--”

“We know who you are, Mr. Kent.” the figure said. “You don’t need to be frightened. We’re not going to harm you.”

_We?_

Clark nodded jerkily. “You’re interested in the Martinez story. But they never found anything, okay? I never had a mob source, no matter what GCPD said--”

“Mr. Kent,” the voice repeated, droll, “We’re not interested in the Martinez story.”

Clark blinked, taken aback. “What--what do you want, then?”

“I can’t tell you that. Not yet, anyway.”

The man shifted, leaning against a wall Clark couldn’t make out. He had the unnerving feeling he was being sized up, suddenly. A predator’s gaze, lazy and sure of itself.

The hair on the back of his neck stood on end. He bit down on his tongue, hard enough to draw blood, and reminded himself to stay calm. They weren’t going to hurt him. They’d said so.

_They?_

Before Clark could ask another question, he heard the sound of a door being pushed open. A second figure entered the room, lithe and tall. He was carrying something in his hands.

“He awake?”

“Yeah,” Clark’s captor said. “He’s kinda shorter in person, huh?”

“Jason, he’s _right there.”_

Clark flinched as something was pressed into his right hand. He hadn’t even seen the man move, but suddenly the shadow was at his side.

“Hey, easy.” Clark could hear the smile, even if he couldn’t see it. “These are your glasses. They got lost in the truck. I’m sorry we couldn’t find them earlier. I’m going to put them on you, okay? Since your hands are tied up.”

The familiar weight of his glasses pushed onto his face, settling on the bridge of his nose. The man grinned, dropping his hands.

He was classically handsome--nothing like what Clark was imagining--with dark, wavy hair, and wide blue eyes. Younger than him, maybe, but not by much.

He turned his gaze onto the other man in the room, still perched by the door. He was wearing a leather jacket and had his arms crossed across an impressive chest. Like the first man, his hair was pitch black, save for a shock of white running through the front. His eyes were an eerie green, scanning the room every few seconds.

“Why are you--why are you apologizing?” he stuttered, turning back to the blue-eyed man. “Who are you?”

“I’m Dick,” he said, jerking a thumb over his shoulder. “That’s Jason.” Jason gave a two fingered wave, looking bored. “And I’m apologizing because you must have been really scared without your glasses.”

“Tim’s fault,” Jason muttered, rolling his eyes. “Make sure to tell _him_ that, alright?”

Dick frowned, crossing his arms. “Jason--”

“Sorry? I didn’t say anything.”

“You could let me go,” Clark interjected, “I won’t say anything. I don’t even know where I am. You could put the bag back on, too--”

“Mr. Kent--”

“Clark, please.”

“Clark,” Dick said, smiling softly. God, his eyes were distracting. Warm. Inviting. “You don’t need to panic, but we can’t let you go just yet.”

“Why not?”

Dick turned, trading a glance with Jason over his shoulder.

“I think our boss wants to tell you that himself.”

“Boss?”

Jason snorted, uncrossing his arms. “Surprised you haven’t put it together yet, reporter boy.” He looked at Dick. “Didn’t he win a Pulitzer?”

“Yeah, I think he did. The tenements case, right?”

Clark blinked as they both turned to him, eager. “Uh...yeah. But I had help.”

“Aw, that’s sweet.” Dick said, smiling. “She’s that red-headed reporter, right? The one who kicked the mayor?”

“Lois,” Clark said, nodding. “And for legal reasons, I have to say she tripped.”

“Woman after my own heart,” Jason said, looking fond. He tapped his chest. “She’d get along great with Steph.”

“I think she follows her on twitter,” Dick said. He clapped his hands, stepping back. “Anyway! If you promise not to try and run, we’ll let you out of the chair.”

Clark glanced down at his lap, momentarily forgetting his predicament. “I, uh...sure. I won’t run. I hate running.”

Jason produced a wicked-looking knife from somewhere in his jacket, holding it up. Clark felt himself pale.

“ _Jason!”_ Dick chided. “We just built a rapport!”

“Five minutes of us talking at him isn’t a rapport,” Jason replied, striding toward Clark. “Besides, you wanna wait for Tim to find the scissors?”

He cringed as the knife slipped in between the ropes, gently severing them. Jason had all four done in the blink of an eye, stepping back to join Dick near the door.

“Wanna go for a walk?”

Clark stood gingerly, wincing as his back cracked.

“Sure,” he said, as Jason slid the knife back into his jacket. “What the hell.”

* * *

They were in some sort of underground bunker, as far as Clark could tell. It was spacious -- the room he’d been kept in was on the far end of the compound, judging on how far they were walking.

He didn’t miss how Jason and Dick stood on either side of him, keeping in pace with him. Everything about them was casual -- they smiled and joked the entire length of the hallway, trading barbs with each other as Clark tried, desperately, to keep a straight face.

Jason held a door open for him, motioning them inside. Clark stepped in, followed by Dick, and gasped.

The walls were covered in television screens, lending the room a cavernous look. At the far end, several computer monitors blinked in unison, processing data. They were curved around a desk and leather chair, casting blue light down on its occupant.

Long fingers flew across the multiple keyboards, directing files and minimizing windows. Clark watched, mesmerized, as a photo of him and Lois appeared in the data stream, dragged over to one of the monitors by the fingers.

“B?”

The man tilted his head, still typing.

“What.”

Jason rolled his eyes. “We got the reporter you wanted. Kent.”

There was a contemplative silence, and then another flurry of typing.

“Is he awake?”

“Yes,” Clark said, before he could stop himself. “And I’d like some answers.”

The room went quiet. Jason looked shocked; Dick just seemed worried.

“...uh, please.” Clark added, watching the back of the man’s head. He hadn’t moved. “When you have the chance, of course. Sir.”

The chair spun around slowly. A pair of piercing blue eyes focused on him, looking him up and down, just like Jason had, earlier. This time, he couldn’t suppress the shudder that went through him.

 _Prey,_ it said.

“Mr. Kent,” the man said, standing fluidly. He was tall, muscular enough that the simple white dress shirt he was wearing seemed just a little too small. Dark hair fell haphazardly across his forehead, like he’d pushed it back with his hands. “Thank you for coming.”

Clark took an embarrassingly long time to put the features together. It’d been years since anyone got a good photo, but the high cheekbones-- _aristocratic,_ the tabloids always said--the full lips, the jaw, just covered with stubble. It all added up. _It all added up--_

“You’re Bruce Wayne,” he choked out, feeling his knees waver. “Holy shit. I got kidnapped by _Bruce Wayne.”_

_Bruce Wayne the violent vigilante who’d gone underground, apparently literally underground, and the only time anyone saw him was when he wanted them to—_

Wayne had the beginning of crows’ feet at the corners of his eyes. Clark watched them crinkle as he fought a smile. “Not personally, no.”

“I just wanna say,” Clark was babbling now, ignoring the looks he was getting from Dick and Jason. “Those columns I wrote in ‘08 about you being a morally corrupt vigilante--I definitely didn’t mean to say you weren’t, you know, _effective,_ just that the whole ‘kill or maim everything in sight’ shtick was a bit much at first, you know?”

Judging from Wayne’s expression, no he did not. Clark felt his heart seize in his chest. _Shut up, just shut up, shut UP--_

“Go get ready for patrol.” Wayne looked at Dick and Jason, ignoring Clark for the moment. Which was great. A few more seconds before death. “We’ll join you in the garage when we’re done.”

The two left without a word. Wayne gestured for him to follow, pulling out a chair at a table hidden in the corner.

Clark sat, watching Wayne as he pulled out an identical chair. He sat with ease, crossing his legs. The computers hummed behind him, shadowing him in blue light.

“They were true,” Wayne said, unprompted. Clark blinked. “If you’re wondering.”

“Sorry?”

“You’ve been watching my back since I told you my name,” Wayne said, leaning back in his chair. His eyes were like mirrors--they gave nothing away, even to Clark’s trained senses, reflecting everything back. “The _Daily Planet_ reported on rumors I’d had my back broken.”

“Rumors,” Clark said, frowning. “Which were unsubstantiated when you turned up, alive, a few months later.”

“Not unsubstantiated. I sustained fractures to my T4 and T5 vertebrae.” Wayne smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “The part about being thrown in the river afterward was made up, however.”

“Why are you telling me this?”

Wayne shrugged. Even that motion was elegant--controlled. “You looked curious.”

“It is my job.”

“And you do it well,” the other man said, gesturing at one of the computer screens. “Congrats on the Pulitzer, by the way.”

“Lois helped,” Clark replied, automatic. “She did most of the write-up.”

“But you did the groundwork,” Wayne said, leaning forward. “You have a knack for getting at the meat of a story.”

“I...thank you?”

Blue eyes caught his, leaving him speechless. Mesmerized, like he was tied up in the chair again. He would do anything for Wayne, in that moment, he realized. _Just like the tabloids described..._

“I have a request, Mr. Kent.”

_Anything--_

“You...what?”

“I want you to write a story about my family,” Wayne said, leaning back into his chair. He waved a hand. “We’d pay you, of course. And the content and tone are entirely up to you--we won’t censor anything except our location.”

 _I’m in Gotham,_ he realized faintly. _Oh fuck. Fuck._

“And then you’d let me go.”

Wayne actually looked offended. “Of course we would.”

“What exactly do you want me to write about?” Clark asked. “A profile, a retrospective, a tell-all--”

Wayne cut him off with a shake of his head.

“We’re taking you on a ride along tonight. I want to clarify to the public--and your readers--exactly what it is we do.”

“A ride along?”

Wayne laughed--a rich, baritone note--and tilted his head, birdlike. “Do you enjoy asking questions, or just repeating the last thing your subject said?”

Clark felt his cheeks burn, shifting in his chair. “Excuse me if I’m a little rusty on my interview skills, sitting across from a _serial killer_.”

The jab, sloppy as it was, seemed to land. Wayne’s face closed, the humor draining from his features.

“I don’t like that term,” he said, curt. “I’d prefer you don’t use it.”

Clark swallowed, then nodded. “What term would you use, then?”

“I’m not sure I would use one.”

They sat in silence, the moment drawing out. Wayne seemed to be waiting for his affirmative--which was surprisingly polite, seeing as he didn’t have a choice.

_Oh god oh god oh god oh god--_

“I want a notebook and a pen,” Clark said, finally, “And I want a voice recorder for the longer interviews.”

“Done.”

“Okay.”

Clark flinched as Wayne put out his hand, drawing in a startled breath. After a moment’s hesitation, he extended his own, shaking it firmly.

“Thank you, Mr. Kent.”

“Call me Clark,” he said, heart pounding. “Please.”

“Bruce, then,” Wayne said, standing. He nodded toward the door. “Shall we?”

Clark felt his stomach sink.

* * *

_Garage_ was a kind word for the space Clark followed Bruce into. If Clark could have chosen the word--and he would, indeed, later--his would be _underground parking lot bunker._ Which was four words, lazy writing, and virtually unprintable, but as accurate as he could be in the moment.

Cars and trucks lined the wide space, parked carefully in between concrete pillars. A grey van sat in the main driveway, parked just behind what looked like a garage door. Nearly a dozen people were halfway through loading it with boxes, their voices echoing.

Bruce said nothing, dropping onto the driveway with a muted click of his dress shoes. He held a hand out for Clark, a smirk dancing around his lips, which Clark took after a glance at the drop.

The second their feet hit the asphalt, the room was quiet. Clark looked up to find the group standing to attention, their eyes on their leader.

 _Waiting for orders,_ Clark realized with a bit of awe. _All of them?_

“This is Clark Kent, a reporter with the _Daily Planet.”_ Bruce said, gesturing. “He’ll ride along tonight. He might ask you questions; you’ll respond truthfully. Understood?”

Everyone nodded. Clark could see Jason and Dick near the front, dressed in dark street clothes. They looked--excited?

“No one touches him. You keep him _safe.”_ The _or else_ was more than implied. “Am I clear?”

“ _Yes, sir_.” the room chorused. Bruce nodded, satisfied. He turned to Clark, who startled at the weight of the man’s full attention. A pad of paper and a pen were pushed into his hands. 

“I won’t be joining you for the first part of this evening,” Bruce explained, rolling up his sleeves. “Dick and Jason will stay with you.” He winked. “Make sure to ask questions.”

“I--I--” Clark spluttered. “Of _course_ I’ll ask questions!”

“Good.” Bruce looked at the group, his expression inscrutable. “Roll out.”

A teen with dark hair--and Jesus, wasn’t that a familiar theme--grabbed his shoulder, nodding toward the van. With one last look at Bruce, he jumped in the van and buckled in.

* * *

**_Tim_ **

Clark’s seatmate introduced himself as Tim, no last name. Tim had circles under his eyes that would make a raccoon jealous. Tim was also clearly three cups of coffee into a ten cup night; his hands shook as he spoke, knee jumping up and down at a frantic pace. He seemed excited about the _patrol,_ a word Clark had him clarify.

“I don’t know how I would explain it,” Tim said. “A patrol kind of implies it being proactive, you know? Kinda spur of the moment? Like whatever you encounter, you encounter.”

“But that’s not what’s happening tonight.”

“No. Tonight is definitely, uh, _reactive_.” Tim smirked, tilting his head. “Bruce has been trying to nail this fucker for a while. Well, tonight it’s gonna happen.”

Jason whistled from the front passenger seat, grinning at Clark in the rearview mirror. “Hell yeah.”

Even Dick, in the driver’s seat, looked enthused. His smile was wolfish in the low orange light of the streetlamps. Clark took a breath, keeping his face composed.

“How did you meet Bruce?”

“Saw him on the news. Tracked him down, told him I wanted in.” Tim smirked, his knee jumping up and down. “The rest is history.”

Clark nodded. “It sounds like the news coverage made you interested.”

“Oh, definitely. Whenever you see someone in Gotham trying to stick it to the bad guys, they never last long. Remember Dent?”

“Who doesn’t remember Dent?” Jason chimed in from the front. “He had TV in Metropolis, didn’t he?”

Tim threw something shiny from his pocket, scowling. It was only when Jason held up a slim dagger, caught between the fingers of his glove, that Clark realized how close he’d come to being injured.

“Is this your interview, Jason? No, I didn’t think so.” Tim turned back to Clark, smiling pleasantly. “What was I saying?”

“You were talking about Harvey Dent.”

“Right, so Harvey gets his girlfriend blown the fuck up, and then, _wham,_ he burns off half his damn face and goes postal on everyone who even looked at him funny, right?” Tim took a breath. “And that was just for trying to fight the mob. Trying to stop the trafficking and addiction a little bit, you know? So Gotham could breathe.”

“I’m not sure I’m following your point,” Clark said, wishing Bruce had given him a recorder. “You’re saying that heroism is punished in Gotham.”

“Right. But what Bruce was doing wasn’t heroism. Not back then, at least. It was barely even vigilantism, by the legal definition. He didn’t wait for the courts, or the GCPD to pull their heads out of their asses. He had money. He made motherfuckers _disappear._ You crossed him and tried to make a fuss? His lawyers would eat you alive.”

“So, in essence, he wasn’t that different from the mob,” Clark observed, chewing on the end of his pen. Tim frowned. “They both had money,” he explained, “they both worked outside of the justice system to get what they wanted.”

“Right,” Tim repeated. It seemed to be his default word. “But Bruce wasn’t doing _bad_ things.”

“I think some people would disagree with you.”

The younger man shook his head. “I didn’t care that he was killing people, if that’s what you mean. Why would I? He wasn’t knocking out the neighborhood drug dealer. He was on the mob, the cartel, the corrupt officers who let people get away with evil.”

“He was able to pursue people the cops couldn’t.” Clark summarized.

“Or _wouldn’t_ ,” Tim said, “Everyone was used to their excuses. Not enough evidence, circumstantial blah blah blah. They just didn’t want to put their own necks out there. Not after what happened to Dent.”

The van took a corner, shifting Clark against the seat. He paused his writing, glancing up.

“You said you tracked him down. Were you comfortable with what he asked you to do, initially?”

“No,” Tim said. “He told me to go home. Actually, he told me to get the fuck out of his house, but I’m not sure you wanna print that.”

“It’s fine.”

“Okay. Well, I kept pressuring him, he told me I didn’t want this life, yada yada. He was real insistent back then.”

Clark sensed a _but._ “Until?”

“Until he realized how much easier it was having help.” Tim said. “I’m good with computers, almost as good as he is. I understood social media better, too.”

“ETA in two minutes,” Jason called over his shoulder. “Wrap it up, Timothy.”

Tim rolled his eyes. “Anyway, I’ve been here ever since. You can ask Jason or Dick more about it, they’ve been here longer.”

“Thanks,” Clark said, making a note. “Could you tell me a little bit about tonight’s, uh, target? Before we get there.”

Tim’s expression hardened. Clark glanced down at his notepad, feeling the tension build inside the van.

“He’s a bad guy,” he said, “Child porn, mostly. But _fuck,_ man, you should see these pictures. Actually, you probably shouldn’t. They’re fucked up.”

“They’re his photos?”

Tim nodded. “Most of them. He puts them online, sells some of them. The others come from his ‘friends’.” He used air quotes. “Bruce dropped a few gigabytes of evidence into the GCPD servers once, but it’s not enough to connect him to the crime, or so they said.”

Clark felt his stomach churn. “And--”

“We’re here.”

Tim winked at him, standing as the van slowed. “You’ll see,” he said, reassuringly. “Just stay with Jason, okay?”

Clark folded up his notebook, tucking it into his jacket. He took a breath as the van door slid open, then released it.

* * *

They were in a suburb of Gotham, somewhere out west and just unfamiliar enough for Clark to be lost. Tim grabbed a rectangular box from the back and pressed a button.

The overhead lights flashed out, leaving the street dark. Clark blinked, shocked.

Jason pulled a gun from his jacket, quickly twisting on a silencer. He gestured to Dick, who headed up the stairs toward the nearest house, what looked like a stun baton at his side.

“Stay with me,” Jason whispered, nodding toward the back of the house. Together, they crept along the sidewalk, Clark’s hands trembling at his sides.

At the back door, Jason slid something thin into the lock, twisting crudely. The door popped open with a creak of metal, swinging inwards. A TV was droning inside somewhere, concealing their footsteps.

There was a crackle of electricity, and then a choked off scream. Jason and Clark stepped into the room just in time to see Dick stun a man in an armchair for the second time, digging the stun baton into his sternum.

After a few seconds, Jason put up a hand. Dick pulled the baton back, looking displeased at being stopped. The man tipped forward out of the armchair, falling to the floor with a loud _thump._

Jason knelt next to him, taking his pulse with two fingers. He nodded up at Dick, who sighed.

“He’s gonna be heavy.”

“Fat fuck,” Jason said, as if in encouragement. Dick shrugged and bent down, throwing the man over his shoulder in one, effortless motion. “Let’s go.”

They exited through the front door, which seemed brazen to Clark. Tim was standing at the bottom of the front steps, holding another box. It had wires running down the sides.

“He good to go?”

Jason nodded, opening the van door for Dick. Tim crept up the front steps and threw the box through the front door. It landed somewhere in the foyer and promptly burst into flames.

“Okay,” Clark said, as the house was quickly engulfed in fire. “Not gonna lie, I thought that was going to be an EMP or something.”

Jason made a face, unscrewing his silencer. “Uh huh. You do a lot of these?”

“Well...no.”

“Fire does the job just as well,” he said. “Back in the van.”

“Where are we taking him?”

Jason tapped the van door with his gun. “Inside, Kent.”

“Right.”

Once he was buckled up, Clark brought out his notebook and underlined one of his earlier notes:

 _comfortable with violence_.

* * *

**_Jason_ **

“You’re not going to kill him, are you?”

Jason paused as he was unloading boxes, giving him a _look_.

“Dude.”

“What?”

“Of course we’re gonna kill him.”

Thankfully, the garage was empty. Clark didn’t need any of the other serial killer Wayne cultists to watch him blush for the third time today. “Of course?”

“He’s a bad guy. He did some pretty fucked up things. Way I see it, this is justice.” Jason shrugged, unloading another box. “Bruce and Dick’ll get any information out of him that they can, and then it’s night night.”

“You’re pretty blase about it.”

Jason dropped the box onto the pile, his back to Clark. He could see the way the muscles bunched and coiled, tense. When he spoke, however, his voice was cold.

“You wanna see the pictures of what he did to his niece?”

Clark blanched.

“N-no.”

“Then I suggest you shut the fuck up.”

Clark had never been good at that.

“What happens next?”

Jason sighed, turning around. “We wait until they’re done.”

“So you can answer a few questions while we wait.”

“Sure,” Jason said, leaning against one of the boxes. He looked less than enthused. “Shoot.”

“When did you learn to use a gun?”

The younger man looked briefly phased. “I was eleven.”

Clark nodded, writing it down. “When did you meet Bruce?”

“I tried to steal his car.”

“He caught you?”

“Yep.”

 _Great job, Kent,_ he thought to himself. “Why do you work for him?”

Jason looked offended. “I don’t work for him. He adopted me.”

“What?” Clark asked, unable to keep the surprise out of his voice. “You mean he’s your—“

“Dad, yeah, technically. This was before he went underground, so he still had some sway with the courts.”

“And when you say underground, you mean—“

“Before he started killing people under his own name.” Jason smiled, looking fond. “He was all prim and proper back then. Head of a company, nice fancy suit. Fancy car…”

“But he was participating in... _vigilante_ work at night?”

“Yep,” Jason popped the ‘p’, crossing his arms. “I stole his rims the night he was skinning Caglione. You remember that?”

Clark remembered the pictures vividly. He swallowed. “I do. He hung him up in an alley, right?”

“Missing his balls,” Jason said proudly. “Less than he deserved, if you ask me.”

“Why’s that?”

“I grew up in the Narrows,” Jason explained, “He used to beat on anyone who looked at him sideways. Including kids. He killed a few of them; it ain’t never seem to bother him.”

“Including you?”

Jason’s face darkened. “I’m not going to answer that.”

“Okay. So he adopted you.”

“Yeah, he already had Dick by then, so we all went on patrol together. And we went with him when he decided to go underground.”

“You weren’t worried about being pursued as criminals?”

Jason snorted, reaching into his jacket. He pulled out a cigarette pack, offering it to Clark. He shook his head. “The day GCPD gets its head out of its ass…”

He flicked a lighter, sticking the cigarette between his lips. With a puff of smoke, he leaned back, exhaling upwards.

“The task force they put together on Bruce was bullshit. I mean, start with the real criminals first, not the ones doing good things, you know what I mean?”

Clark nodded, writing furiously. “That wasn’t always the perspective of the public, however.”

“Fuck those shitheads,” Jason said, taking another drag. He gestured with his cigarette. “It was the same rich elite Bruce was trying to take down crying to mama about _ethics_ and _due process._ The same ones who wouldn’t say shit to Sandy if he murdered a hundred kids in the Narrows.”

“I haven’t covered a lot about Gotham,” Clark prefaced, as Jason puffed angrily on his cigarette, the tip glowing cherry red. “But there’s been a lot of speculation about Bruce—Mr. Wayne’s—followers.”

“Like what?”

“That you’re sycophants,” Clark said, then backtracked. “That means someone who’s—“

“I know what sycophant means,” Jason said, irritated. “I’m not stupid.”

“Sorry,” Clark said, mortified. “Do you, uh, agree with that label?”

“Do I think Bruce attracts mindless zombies who drool over everything he says?” Jason clarified. “Hell no. He’s an asshole 99 percent of the time.”

“But?” Clark asked.

“But he’s good at this fucking shit,” Jason said, gesturing with the cigarette. “He knows people, man. Gets them to squeal. Like pigs.”

“You’re talking about torture.”

Jason’s eyes flashed, an eerie green in the low light. Clark suddenly remembered that he was in the presence of someone who could kill him without a thought. “Problem, reporter boy?”

“It’s a lot to stomach.” 

“Not for Bruce,” Jason smiled, amused. “He learned all that shit up in the mountains somewhere. They practiced on him, so he knew how it felt.”

“He was tortured?” Clark asked, frowning. Jason nodded, taking another drag.

“Yeah. You should see some of the scars. Surprised he isn’t dead. Anyway, he’s a little fucked in the head because of it, but who isn’t?”

 _Me,_ Clark wanted to say. He scribbled down a few more notes.

“Do you think he’s doing good?” He asked, after a pause. “Do you think you’re doing something good, as a group?”

Jason considered this, his cigarette nearly finished between his fingers.

“Yeah, I do.” He said, tilting his head. It was reminiscent of Bruce. “One more pedo off the street? Doesn’t keep me up at night.”

Clark nodded, writing the quote down verbatim.

“What’s something you wish readers knew about you or Bruce?” He asked, in closing.

Jason smiled, something dangerous dancing in his eyes.

“That we’re everywhere,” he said simply. “And we’ll find you. If we have to.”

Clark inhaled, nodding as he wrote that down as well. Jason dropped his cigarette on the concrete and stepped on it with his heel, sending embers across the floor.

“Let’s go see what Dickie’s up to,” Jason said. “I’m sure he’ll have something smarter to say.”

Clark closed his notebook, frowning. “That was plenty smart, Jason.”

“Aww, you really think so?” Jason said, mockingly. He gestured toward the door. “C’mon, I bet we can catch Bruce’s part if we hurry.”

“Bruce’s part?”

“Of the torturing. Duh.”

Clark paled, following behind Jason after he could convince his legs to work again.

_The torturing. How could I forget._

**Author's Note:**

> To be updated ASAP! Let me know what you think, and thanks for reading!


End file.
